Anew
by Strawberry Shortcake123
Summary: In which they get a second glimpse of what could be. Tiva. Oneshot. High T.


**Christmas/New Year's themed, kinda. But not really. Enjoy!**

He hasn't seen her in nearly three months.

This isn't how he pictured their reunion.

In his mind, she would rush into his arms and cling to him like she'd never let go. He would clutch her back, and somewhere in the midst of their enthusiastic kisses, he would slip in the three words that he had been too cowardly to utter when he left her back in October. It would be a scene fit for the movies, worthy of a swelling crescendo of music.

None of this happens when she opens the door of her Tel Aviv apartment to find him standing on the other side. Her eyes flit over his face, down to his suitcase, and back up.

By some miracle, he finds his voice. "Merry Christmas."

She hesitates only a second before taking a step back. "Come in."

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The apartment is small, containing a joint living room and kitchen, one bedroom, and one bath. Tony looks around as he wheels his suitcase up against a wall, trying to get a feel for her new life- the one that doesn't include him. He can't tell a whole lot from the neat, organized surroundings. He does manage to sneak a covert glance into the bedroom and is thrilled to find that her bed is only a twin.

"Are you hungry?" Ziva asks.

He licks his lips. "Nah. I was starving, so I stopped at a café on my way over. You know I can't eat plane food." This is not a lie, but it is also not the whole truth. He could have easily been here an hour ago; he purposely took his sweet time eating and making his way across the city in order to put this off. Coming here without telling anybody, least of all her, was an impulse. Those have not been working out for him too often as of late.

"Thirsty?" Her accent is thicker than it used to be. It's unbelievably sexy, but he still dislikes it, because it's a result of the time she has been here instead of with him.

"No, I'm good."

Ziva nods and bites her lower lip. Tony awkwardly shoves his hands in his pockets. Silence sits heavily between them. He tries to think of something to say, anything. He opens his mouth three times to blurt out some stupid fodder for small talk; nothing ever comes out.

_Screw it, _he thinks. What use is treading lightly? He has already taken a huge gamble. Might as well see it through.

"The team dinner didn't happen this year," he says. "Gibbs went to Pennsylvania, McGee was with Delilah… everybody had other plans. Except me. On Christmas Day, I sat at home, alone, watching the ABC Family holiday movie marathon and talking to my fish."

Ziva's guarded expression softens. "Ton-"

"Being lonely didn't used to bother me. Then, with you, I got to see what it was like to have a best friend. To _love_ someone_"_- there is the forbidden word, it's out in the open, and he isn't sure what the drop of her jaw means- "more than anything in the world. We weren't together, but Ziva, you were- you _are_- the most important person in my life. And this… this being apart thing… it's not working."

He crosses the room and comes to a stop in front of her. Unflinching, she holds his gaze. "I couldn't stand it," he whispers. "I know I said I would respect your decision and all that, but… I couldn't. I had to see you."

Ziva palms his cheeks, caressing gently. Relieved that she has not kicked him out and slammed the door in his face, he holds onto her forearms. He had forgotten how good it felt just to breathe the same air as her.

"Tony," she sighs, and he braces himself, because it was that soft, regretful tone that she used to crush him last fall. "I never wanted to hurt you. Do you understand that?"

"Yeah."

"You could find somebody who doesn't have the kind of baggage I do. Somebody with no blood on her hands. You could find somebody… better."

Shaking his head furiously, he removes himself from her grasp. Her face falls. His first instinct is to make that crestfallen look go away, but first he _has_ to get something through her thick skull. "What makes you think I want better, Ziva? I spent my summer trekking through the _Middle fuckin' East_ trying to hunt you down, even after we knew you were no longer in danger, because you had gone off the grid and I needed my partner. And then, after you rejected me and sent me home with my tail between my legs, I came crawling back to you. I came here to _beg, _Ziva. Why the hell would you think I'm in the market for something _better_? Are you blind? Can't you see-" His throat catches, cutting him off in the middle of his rant, and he tries to calm down. Ziva appears completely, utterly stunned. Despite all the arguments they've had before, he can't recall either of them yelling at each other like this. He reaches out for her but doesn't touch her. She stares at him for a long moment before moving into his arms, allowing him to hold her around the waist. Tony presses his nose into her hair.

"Can't I see what?" she asks.

"Huh?"

"You did not finish your sentence, before. Can't I see _what_?"

Fighting tears, he tilts her chin up. Her long lashes rest against her cheekbones as he plants kisses all over the olive expanse of her face. She moves her hands to his chest when he kisses and then speaks into her collarbone.

"Can't you see," he pleads, "that there _is_ nobody better for me?"

"I see, Tony," she yields. "I see." Tony exhales in relief. After a tranquil moment, her nimble fingers begin the work of unbuttoning his shirt. Tony raises his head.

"Sit on the couch," she orders softly, eyes smoldering. Two paces backward is all the further he has to go. Ziva pushes him down before straddling his lap and spreading his shirt open. He inhales sharply when she begins drawing patterns across his bare skin. Cautiously, he strokes the outsides of her thighs. She doesn't object; rather, she brings her hands up to encircle his neck.

"I want you, too," she says. "You believe me, yes?"

"'Course." And he does. Beneath his hurt and anger, he knows that the reasons she left had little to do with him and everything to do with her and her guilt and those damn demons that she has just not been able to escape.

"Good," Ziva murmurs, and for the first time, their lips meet. It is not a slow kiss, not at all; it is passionate and desperate, all tongue, no time. Tony loses one hand in her curls and runs the other up her shirt. In one quick motion, he unhooks her bra; when he squeezes her breast, she moans.

He breaks away, panting. She is on top of him and he's holding her breast and his mouth now tastes like hers. She's completely overwhelming him (what else is new?) and he needs a moment to gather his wits.

As he sinks into the sofa, she yanks her shirt over her head and casts aside her bra. His leer does not go unnoticed, if the smirk on her face is any indication, but he does not receive the punch and reprimand he expects. Instead, Ziva leans forward and nuzzles his neck.

"What're you doing?" Tony asks when she remains still in that position.

"Cuddling with you," she replies.

It's such an uncharacteristic thing for Ziva to say- or to _do_- that at first, he thinks he must have heard wrong. But then she arches her back to press her torso against his, effectively cloaking him with her warmth, and he realizes that she _is_ aiming for some simple, bare-skinned intimacy before proceeding with the sex. He drops light kisses on her shoulder as he rubs her back. Her hum of pleasure reverberates in their chests.

Yeah. There is definitely nothing better.

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In the end, they don't bother with the bed; rather, they slip onto the living room floor and make love there. Limbs entangled, hearts pounding, they collapse in an exhausted heap afterwards. He clutches her tightly to him and prays to whoever is listening that he will not have to look back later and know that this particular coupling on this particular day was their last.

For what it's worth, Ziva _does_ allow him to hold her. Her foot slides lazily up and down his leg; she traces his biceps and notes in a low voice that they have grown much more defined. (He has been spending a lot of time at the gym lately. If he focuses on counting reps, then he can't think too hard about anything else.)

"Thought big muscles might be enough to lure you home," he jokes.

She chuckles humorlessly. "Tony."

"Right, I know. Sorry."

Propping her elbows on his chest, she looks down at him. Her bottom lip is wedged between her teeth; her curls are a mess; her cheeks are flushed. She has always been so beautiful. An after-sex glow suits her well.

"Tony," she says again, "this summer… this summer, you said that you were fighting for me."

"Yeah." The memory of that day in the orange grove is too much; he quickly shuts it down, shoves it aside.

"And you have not stopped, hmm? That's why you are here right now."

Tony doesn't know where she's going with this, but she is, of course, correct. There's no harm in confirming it. "Yeah."

"Tell me again."

He barely manages to navigate past the lump in his throat. "I'm fighting for you, Ziva."

Ziva gives him a chaste kiss, keeping her eyes open. He stares right back at her. When she breaks away, she whispers, "And I'm thinking about letting you."

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Tony has just dropped his dinner dishes into the sink when the jet lag finally catches up to him and a sudden, almighty yawn escapes. Ziva raises her eyebrows at him.

"Guess I'm a little tired," he admits sheepishly. She smirks as she sets her plate on top of his. He allows himself to look her up and down. Noticing this, she steps forward, snaking her arms around him and completely invading his space.

"You are googling," she says. He isn't sure whether or not she's messing up the idiom on purpose. "You saw more than this earlier."

"That doesn't mean you don't look hot as hell now." Panties and a camisole were all she bothered to put back on after rolling around on the floor with him. It's not like he can talk- he's only wearing jeans. If Gibbs could see them, half-naked and hanging off each other, the resulting head slaps would surely lead to comas.

Ziva gives him a kiss. "Go to bed," she says, twirling his chest hair between her fingers. "I will be in after I clean up."

"You think we'll both fit in that thing?"

She winks. "We can squeeze." With that, she turns and opens a drawer. Tony takes the opportunity to swat her ass playfully; before she can retaliate, he has hurried away and ducked into the bedroom.

He is torn from sleep an indeterminable amount of time later by the mattress shifting. Ziva curls up facing him and smiles apologetically. "Sorry."

"'S'okay," he slurs. Honestly, it doesn't matter how sleep-deprived he is- he has absolutely no problem with being awakened by her. "Need some covers?" At her nod, he tosses the other side of his blanket around her, then tugs her to him. He breathes in her scent, a combination of vanilla and the spices in her cooking. It's so uniquely her, and, after these dreary few months, a great comfort.

She sighs into his neck just before he drifts off again. "Tony."

"Yeah."

"When is your flight home?"

"Don't have one yet."

Ziva squints up at him, seeming confused. "Why not?"

"Wasn't sure how long you'd let me stay. I didn't want to be stuck here with nothing to do for three days if you wouldn't let me in."

She chuckles lowly and tucks her knees between his. "Israel is a beautiful, historically rich country. You could have done some sightseeing."

"I'm more interested in the sight of you."

He would be hard-pressed to say anything cornier, but at least she laughs. Her face is so open; she looks, dare he say, _happy_. Come to think of it, she seems happier now than she has at any prior point following her father's death. "Are you still volunteering at that school?" he asks, realizing for the first time that they've been so infatuated with each other, they have not really taken the time to catch up.

"I am." Her e-mails have been few and far between, but in them, she's told about the kids she tutors twice a week. Tony has gotten the impression that she enjoys it as a hobby. Teaching is not her passion, though- and that's what she wrote on her I Will list as something she needed to find.

A passion.

That could take a lifetime.

He doesn't want to spend his waiting.

Wrapping her curls around his hand, he asks, "Doing anything else?"

Ziva sighs, sobering slightly. He kisses her forehead in an attempt to amend the worrying shift in her demeanor. What has happened that she wouldn't want to tell him about? His stomach drops when he thinks about the fact that Adam lives in Tel Aviv, too. _Should the question have been 'doing any_one_ else'…?_

Apparently, his features betray him, because Ziva runs her thumb along his cheek and assures him, "You were the last man I so much as kissed, Tony."

Neither of them made any commitment before he returned to the States; he has no right to be possessive or jealous. Still, he is relieved. "Then what's wrong, Ziva?"

"I am lonely," she whispers. She sounds so broken. His heart aches- out of sympathy, yeah, but also because he is much too familiar with the feeling. "I tutor the children. I see Aunt Nettie and Shmiel regularly. I go to the market; I pick olives; I read. But I… at the end of the day, this apartment is empty. I fall asleep alone and wake up alone. That was how I lived most of my life in D.C., you know. It never bothered me. So why, Tony, why…" Taking a deep breath, she drills her teary, pleading eyes into his. "Why is it so hard now?"

"It's because of what happened at your family's old house in Be'er Sheva," he responds quietly. He is speaking from experience- his bed, too, has seemed less inviting since then. "We spent four days sleeping next to each other and cooking together and taking walks in the orange grove. You got a glimpse of what could be."

Ziva smiles tearfully. Under the covers, she grabs his hand. "I think those were the best few days of my life."

_Do not cry, you big baby, _he tells himself. "Mine too."

She bites her lip, then squeezes his palm and does not loosen her grip. "Be honest, Tony. Do you think it is too late for us?"

He answers immediately, not even giving her time to draw a breath.

"Never."

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From there, they become fully immersed in a blissful little bubble. It is heaven, Tony thinks- to have her in his arms all night; to wake her with a kiss come morning; to talk and laugh over breakfast. Being holed up with her in this apartment would not be an objectionable way to spend the rest of his life. He tries to enjoy it and ignore his sense of impending doom- the last time he shacked up with her, after all, she ended the arrangement by forcing him to go home by himself.

On the evening of the third day, he notices a change in her mood. She is still conversing with him, but her responses grow shorter and softer, and a couple of times, he catches her staring straight ahead with a vacant expression. The dread in his chest grows heavier. He isn't sure what he should do; all he knows is that he cannot stand to sit here wondering when she'll pluck up the courage to tell him to leave.

She is wiping down the kitchen counter for the fourth time since they finished eating when he decides enough is enough and leans forward to grab her arm. She jumps.

"Come sit with me," he says gently.

After a long, still second, she looks over at him. Tony leans back in his seat and tugs her gently toward him.

"That chair is not terribly sturdy," is her weak excuse.

"If it breaks, I'll buy you a new one."

With a submissive sigh, she gingerly lowers herself to sit sideways in his lap. He wraps his arms around her. The way she automatically leans into him is enough to give him a little spurt of hope.

"What's the matter, Ziva?" he asks. With one hand, he gently massages her thigh; the other keeps her anchored firmly to him. He watches her lashes flutter as she hesitates.

Then she angles her head up, and the sensation of her lips moving against his neck gives him goose bumps. "I am thinking about… about how you need to leave before I make a very poor decision."

Tony lets out a frustrated sigh. If her wish were simply to start over and lead a life free from violence, as she has claimed, then she would be doing so in D.C. With him. The way she insists on hiding out in Israel and sending him away whenever she finds herself experiencing the slightest bit of delight tells him that she is still drowning in guilt. She doesn't think she deserves the love and commitment he is offering her. She doesn't deserve to be supported by her friends- her family- as she finds her way in the world. The only thing she deserves is misery.

"Why would coming home be a poor decision?"

"You know why."

"No," he argues, voice rising a bit, "I really don't. I don't get this at all." Ziva is quiet as she puckers a fistful of his shirt. He touches her cheek and waits for her to look at him. "You're free from Mossad. You're free from NCIS. Ziva, you're _free_. You can do whatever the hell you want. Your life doesn't belong to any government now. It's _yours_. Why are you spending it like this?"

For one blessed moment, he thinks he may have gotten through to her. There is sudden light in her countenance; her mouth hangs slightly agape. He waits, heart in his throat.

Then her shoulders slump and she is touching her forehead to his. "Please-" And now she is the one begging. "Please, Tony, trust that… that I am doing the right thing. For both of us. Please… book a flight. Book a flight for the thirty-first, yes? The day after tomorrow. That way, we still have time to enjoy together, and your travel arrangements are taken care of, and… Tony, just, please. I need you to do this for me."

There it is.

Again, Tony has put his heart on the line. And, again, she has shattered it.

Part of him wants to walk away. He wants to storm out the door, fly home, find some blonde chick in a bar, and take her home. He wants to end up liking her, dating her, marrying her. And he wants to forget Ziva David ever existed.

It would be so much easier than this.

But his words to her- _there is nobody better for me_- still ring true. Trying to move on would be fruitless. Ultimately, what he truly yearns for is more time with her, and that's what she's offering now.

So he abandons reason. And gives in.

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"Do you have everything?"

Tony glances down at his suitcase but doesn't bother to double-check inside of it. Whatever he forgets can be replaced. "Yeah."

Ziva nods. The bags under her eyes mirror his. Neither of them slept well. Her sobbing woke him up twice, and, in a separate incident, he had a very vivid nightmare which caused him to jerk awake in a cold sweat. When the sun came up, they made love one last time. The sex was so needy, so wrought with emotion; after they came down from their respective highs, they spent the better part of an hour holding each other and pretending not to cry.

Now, as they stand in the hallway trying to say goodbye, he forces himself to walk away. "I guess I should get going," he says regretfully. "My car's probably already waiting."

She sniffs loudly. "Okay," she whispers before pulling him into a tight hug. Tony immediately slips his hand into her hair and holds her as close as possible, praying she'll never let go.

Much too soon, she does. So he does, too.

The foot of space between them might as well be an ocean as he grabs the handle of his suitcase. "I love you," he says, because if nothing else comes out of this trip, he will make sure she knows that.

"I love you, too," she responds. Funny- hearing her profess it is more bitter than sweet. "Call me when you land."

"Will do." He pauses to take in her messy bun, her sweat pants, her tank top. Even having put no effort into her appearance thus far today, she is beautiful. Hopefully, her image will stay ingrained in his mind until he gets to see her in person again. "Bye."

"Bye." She swallows, hard.

Tony turns around. He takes one step, two. Three. _Don't look back,_ he chants to himself. _Don't look back_.

"Tony?"

He looks back.

Ziva is staring at him, head cocked to the side, with a funny look playing across her features, as if some big revelation is being made to her. As if she has unearthed a great secret.

"I want," she begins in wonder, like it is just now occurring to her that yes, yes, her desires _do_ matter, and yes, she is in a position to do whatever the hell she wants with them. "I want… to come with you."

He has learned his lesson about getting his hopes up, so he doesn't allow himself the elation that should follow her announcement. Instead, he waits. She does not shoo him away. She does not say "never mind". She just watches him.

Finally, when he thinks that maybe, just maybe, she means it, he walks back over to her and sweeps a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Do you really?"

"Yes," she breathes.

He nods with some lingering wariness. Vulnerability is not something he can afford right now.

But he'll give her yet another chance.

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Tony doesn't breathe again until their plane takes off, leaving behind the airport and Ziva's ability to change her mind. She grips his hand like a lifeline as they soar high above Tel Aviv. After staring out the window for a long while, she turns toward him.

"Still glad you came?" he asks.

She smiles- _oh_, does she look radiant- and runs her free hand over his jaw. "Yes."

He grins and starts to say something else, but she pulls him in for a kiss, slow and sweet and full of promise.

Their rough night soon catches up with them. Tony's eyelids start to droop and Ziva's head lolls onto his shoulder and they both fall asleep in that position. Later, when he is awakened by the crying baby behind them, he experiences a moment of confusion. And when he remembers that _they_, both of them, are on their way home, the joy that rushes through his veins is not quite like anything he's ever experienced before.

He has spent about two hours watching her sleep when the flight attendant gets on the intercom and asks the passengers to put their seatbelts on as they begin the final descent into D.C. Tony leans over Ziva to peer outside and is greeted with a burst of bright light from down below.

"Hey," he says, shaking her. "We're here."

"Hmm?"

"We're here. Put your seatbelt on."

Ziva sits up and wipes sleep from her eyes. As she pulls the seatbelt over herself, she, too, looks down at the city. "Wow. That is beautiful."

"You've flown into D.C. at night before, haven't you?" he asks.

"Yes, but I have never been so glad for it."

Restrained by his own seatbelt, he maneuvers his arms around her and catches a glimpse of his watch as he settles his joined hands against her stomach. It is six minutes past midnight.

"Happy New Year," he murmurs in her ear before planting jubilant kisses down her neck.

"Yes," Ziva says. "It is."

And so they arrive.


End file.
